


Snow Shoes

by Ignaz Wisdom (ignaz)



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-27
Updated: 2010-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-10 20:15:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/103835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignaz/pseuds/Ignaz%20Wisdom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray takes a leap of faith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow Shoes

**Author's Note:**

> I'm clearing out my hard drive. Eledhwenlin looked this over approximately 1000 years ago and offered excellent feedback. Thanks, Eledh.

I don't know what I'm doing up here. _No_ idea what I'm doing. I've been out of my element before—mostly when working with Fraser back home—but that was a cakewalk compared to this. My ass is freezing, I'm snowblind, I'm permanently zonked-out exhausted, and four weeks into it I still suck at snow shoeing. You got no idea how rough this is, this Northwest Areas thing, until you've been there yourself.

It's the whole hugeness, for starters. The _space_. You crawl out of the tent in the morning, shivering all over and fumbling around to try and make coffee, and then you get your first good look at it for the day, and it's like a heart attack. Every single time, every single morning. Complete shock that you're in a place so big, because you've never quite understood "big" before. Chicago's city-big, which isn't the same thing at all. Tall buildings versus no buildings, night versus day—Chicago wouldn't understand _space_ if space bit it in the ass. Up here, you get the space thing. You get it but good.

And Fraser—Fraser crawls out of the tent every day looking like he's been _reborn_. Like he died overnight and that vast white expanse of fuck-all is the pearly gates; like I'm Saint Peter, even though there's nothing saintly about the stuff we've been doing in the tent at night. He looks at me and at Canada like it's his birthday and Christmas, and maybe Easter and Valentine's Day and—and _Canada Day_ all wrapped up in one. Then he asks me if I slept well, all polite-like, and I crack a dirty joke that makes the flush on his reddened cheeks stand out even more. Then we feed ourselves and the dogs and we pack up and off we go.

Maybe I know what I'm doing up here after all.


End file.
